The Dark Clue (3 page)

‘Oh, I can quite see that,' I said. ‘But –'

She appeared not to have heard me.

‘Both Mrs. Booth, Turner's housekeeper, and his friend George Jones are good-hearted people, but…' She paused, and shook her head. ‘Well, frankly, neither of them is equal to it. And Mr. Jones, I believe, in any case now spends most of his time dressing up as the Duke of Wellington. At best, they might both furnish you with useful memoirs.'

She paused, and again I found myself at a loss for words. It was Marian who broke the silence:

‘There
is
no-one else, Walter. If you won't do it, Thornbury will carry the day unopposed.'

‘And do not underestimate yourself, Mr. Hartright,' said Lady Eastlake. ‘Unlike Thornbury, you are an artist, who will understand the painter in Turner . . .'

I cried – I could not stop myself – ‘You cannot compare -!'

‘He may have been a general, and you – forgive me – only a colonel,' replied Lady Eastlake. ‘But all artists belong to the same regiment, and fight the same battles, and crave the same victory. And then', she went on, before I could protest further, ‘you are also, by your own admission, a chronicler, who knows how to gather and evaluate and compile the accounts of different witnesses.'

‘And a crusader, who has already proven his determination to right a great wrong,' said Marian.

Lady Eastlake nodded. ‘Who could be more ideal?'

They were quiet then, leaving me to ponder what they had said. I tried, again, to impose some order on my own jangled thoughts, but they all – save one, which rang through my head with the clarity of a bell – remained in turmoil. At length Marian said:

‘This is all so unexpected for poor Walter that I think we must allow him some time to consider his response.'

‘Yes, of course,' said Lady Eastlake.

And so we left it. No more mention of the idea was made, and, after exchanging the usual pleasantries for a few minutes, Marian and I rose to go. Only as Stokes ushered us from the room did Lady Eastlake say:

‘I may expect to hear from you soon, I hope, Mr. Hartright?'

*

We barely spoke on the way home. I was still trying to marshal my own thoughts, which were all of you and the children, and of how our lives would change if I accepted Lady Eastlake's strange proposal; but I was constantly deflected by waves of wild emotion – dread, and a kind of dizzy exhilaration, in about equal measure – which I could not trace confidently to their source, but which seemed to gush unbidden from some hidden spring in my mind.

Marian, for her part, was uncharacteristically constrained. I thought little of it at the time, beyond merely remarking the fact; but now I think she must have taken my silence to mean that I was angry; for when we were back in our own drawing room, and had shut the door, she laid a hand lightly on my arm and said:

‘I do hope, Walter, that you don't think I did wrong.'

‘What,' I said, ‘to invite me to Lady Eastlake's?'

‘Not that,' she said. ‘But to invite you without telling you the reason. She insisted that you should know nothing until she had met you, and could decide for herself whether you would be suitable. But when I saw you sitting there, so bewildered, it made me feel a traitor. Or, rather, made me feel that
you
would think me a traitor.'

Poor Marian! ‘I was taken aback, I must own,' I said. ‘But I never suspected you of treachery, or doubted that you had my best interests at heart.'

‘I'm glad.' She was silent for a moment, looking down at her bag and toying with the string. Then, as if she had decided at last to say something that had long been on her mind, she burst out: ‘May we talk frankly, Walter?'

‘Nothing I have ever known could prevent you talking frankly, once you were set on it,' I said. ‘And I'm quite certain that it lies beyond
my
power to stop you.'

She laughed, and her voice had regained some of its old gaiety as she replied: ‘I said “we”, not “I”.'

‘Very well,' I said.

We sat together on the sofa. It was dusk, but neither of us suggested lighting the gas. Perhaps we both felt that it would be easier to open our hearts if our faces, at least, were veiled by the deepening gloom. At length she said:

‘Many years ago I told you that we should always be friends, Walter, did I not?'

‘Yes,' I said, taking her hand. ‘And so we shall.'

‘I hope so,' she said. ‘At any rate, that is the spirit in which I now speak. You may think me impertinent; but please believe that I am prompted only by sisterly love for you and Laura.'

‘Of course I believe it,' I said. ‘I've never been surer of anything in my life.' And nor had I; but, notwithstanding, I waited with trepidation to hear what she would say next. A whole army of butterflies seemed to have taken up residence in my stomach, and my legs were so leaden that, if Davidson had rushed in at that moment shouting ‘Fire! Fire!', I doubt whether they would have carried me to the door.

‘Thank you,' said Marian. She breathed deeply, then went on: ‘You know that, living as close together as we do, we cannot help noticing the smallest changes in each other's moods?'

‘Yes,' I said.

‘Well,' she said, ‘recently I think I have noticed such a change in you. You have become restless, and distracted. You paint and draw less than you did. And, while you are still as loving a husband and father and brother as ever, I sometimes think it is with a greater effort than previously. As if … as if you have to bring yourself back from some other place in order to be with us.'

‘It's difficult for me to paint here,' I said, ‘until the studio is finished. And I have, as you know, been very taken up with planning it, and overseeing the work.'

‘The want of a studio never stopped you painting before,' she said. ‘And you may, I think, safely leave building it to the workmen. They do not require you to go out twenty times a day and tell them their job.'

I remembered where she had found me that afternoon, and was glad the darkness hid my blushes.

‘No,' she went on, ‘we must look for a deeper cause. And I think I know what it is.'

I need not burden you

I wish I could spare you what she said next; for it must inevitably hurt you, and make you think worse of me. But it is the truth, and you must know it – else you will cease to know
me
.

‘Dear Walter,' she said, in a quieter, tenderer voice. ‘You are the victim of your own sensitive nature. No-one else, knowing all the circumstances, could possibly accuse you of having benefited improperly from marrying Laura, and sharing the fortune which eventually became hers. Yet that, if I am right, is the charge with which you torment yourself. You know that your conduct has always been beyond reproach, and that you have brought her more happiness than she ever knew in her life. And yet, and yet, and yet.. . You still harbour the faint suspicion that you have somehow become a pensioner, and it is an agony to you.'

I opened my mouth to speak; but, in truth, I could not find the strength to deny it. In a moment, she had cast a light into some dark corner of my being and found a canker to which, until now, I had been unable to give a name.

‘Worse still,' she continued, ‘you feel a certain vacancy at the centre of your life. You have everything that, in the eyes of the world, should make a man happy: a gentle and loving wife, two beautiful children, a fine estate, and the regard of your brother artists. Yet something is lacking: a
cause
capable of stirring your soul, and carrying you beyond the concerns of family and home.'

I nodded, and I think she must have seen me; for I felt her hand tightening on mine. ‘It is nothing to be ashamed of,' she said. ‘It is just that, like all noble natures, you know that family and home themselves are meaningless, unless they stand in relation to some greater purpose.'

Outside, a wagon squealed and rumbled across the cobbles. I clutched at the sound gratefully, and wrapped it about me like a cloak; for my eyes were full of tears.

‘For months,' said Marian, ‘I have been looking for some way to relieve you. And that is why my heart leapt when Lady East-lake told me of her anguish over Turner's life, for here at last, it seemed, was a great purpose you were perfectly fitted to fulfil.' She paused, and then went on: ‘You know, I hope, that I will gladly help you, as I did once before, when fate enlisted us in the same struggle. Dear Walter, please say you will do it!'

Once, many years ago – do you remember? – I called Marian our good angel; and so she is, for like an angel she seems to know what is best and truest in us better than we know it ourselves.

For some moments I could not speak; and when I did, all I could say was: Thank you.'

And so, my love, tomorrow I shall write to Lady Eastlake, telling her that, on certain conditions, I accept. And the upshot (if she agrees) is that you will have to get to know me in yet another character. Drawing master, detective, husband, clerk of works – and now, of all things, biographer!

It is late here, and cold. I shall go to bed, and hold to myself the pillow that still bears the smell of your skin and hair.

Good night,

Walter

II

Memorandum of a letter from Walter Hartright to
Lady Eastlake, 19th July, 185-

1. Thank you for your invitation; great pleasure finally to meet you.

2. After consideration, delighted to accept your proposal that I should write a
Life of J. M. W. Turner.

3. Must, however, make one stipulation: respect your feelings towards Turner, but neither they, nor wish to thwart Thornbury, can be my guide. Shall do no more, and no less, than try to discover truth (which in biography
must
, I think, be same as facts!). Go where trail leads me, without fear or favour. Cannot promise, therefore, to paint portrait you wish.

4. Hope you will forgive bluntness, but important to be clear at outset in order to avoid misunderstanding later.

III

Letter from Lady Eastlake to Walter Hartright,
19th July, 185–

7 Fitzroy Square,
Wednesday

My dear Mr. Hartright,

Many thanks for your letter of this morning, and for so promptly putting an end to my unease.

I am very glad that you feel able to act on my suggestion, and will give you what assistance I can. And yes – of course I accept that Truth must be your only master. I would, indeed, expect no less; and, had I suspected for a moment that you would be deflected from your purpose by partisan considerations, I should not have asked you to undertake a task which so clearly requires the greatest integrity.

I hope, nonetheless, that you will not feel I am trying to influence you improperly if I recommend that – whomever else you may talk to – you should begin by approaching Mr. Ruskin, Mr. Jones and Mrs. Booth. I have given their addresses to Marian, with this letter, and I will write to Mr. Jones and Mrs. Booth myself this evening, telling them that they may expect to hear from you. Since I know that Mrs. Booth refused to speak to Mr. Thornbury, it occurs to me that – in the first instance, at least – Marian, as another woman, might have more success in winning her confidence and securing her co-operation. As to Mr. Ruskin – I fear a letter from me would not help your case, so you must take courage and disturb the great man yourself.

Yours most truly,

Eliz. Eastlake

IV

Letter from Walter Hartright to Laura Hartright,
20th July, 185–

The Reading Room, British Museum Library,
Thursday

My dearest love,

Thank you for your letter, and for Florrie's and Walter's drawings – they will soon outstrip their father if I do not look to my laurels!

Yesterday I wrote to Ruskin and to George Jones, R.A., but have received no reply from either of them. Not wishing to be idle, therefore, I have taken myself – as you can see from the address – to the new Reading Room at the British Museum Library. (It is, by the by, a prodigious building, which seems to me to belong almost to a new order of object; large and hushed
and awe-inspiring enough to be a great cathedral, and yet erected not as a temple to God, but rather to our knowledge of His creation. Was such a thing ever attempted before? In Alexandria, perhaps; but what mankind then knew of the world was puny by comparison. Here, in London, for the first time, the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil has been raised up in bricks and mortar; and who knows whether it will prove a blessing or a curse?)

My aim here has been to find out what I can of Turner – and, from what I have discovered so far, I think my life of him will be quick work indeed. He was born, in London, in 1775, on St. George's Day; he drew; he painted; he died. That, in essence – save for a few incidentals, such as his journeys in this country and in Europe – is more or less all we know, at the ordinary humdrum level. He never married; never fought a duel; never fomented a revolution; never declared his love for a princess – a million Englishmen must have lived such lives, and none but their families and friends thought them worthy of a second glance. All that marks Turner out is his fanatical dedication to his art, which makes for sublime paintings, but leaves only meagre pickings for a biographer. I begin to feel sorry for poor Thornbury, who has perhaps resorted to slander in a desperate attempt to make the thin gruel of his narrative more palatable.

It is for this reason that, while I understand your anxiety, I believe it to be groundless. There will, of course, be unexpected difficulties, and I must not underestimate them, but I am sure that our separation need only be prolonged by two or three weeks – and if I thought otherwise I should, I promise you, write to Lady Eastlake this instant, telling her that I had changed my mind. Turner's close acquaintance was, it seems, pitifully small, and is now much depleted by death; and seeing the few friends who are left (assuming
they
will see
mel)
should take only a matter of days. After that, I shall have to seek out diaries, letters and so on to help me – particularly for the early years, for which there are presumably no living witnesses at all; but then I should be able to return to Limmeridge with my booty, and do most of the work there. Although I may have to come back once or twice in the interim, just for a few days, I'm
sure I shall then be safe in Cumberland until we all return to London together next season.